Perfidious Albion
by Illeia Evalion
Summary: "I've brought you war, and have seen you at your worst. You could say, I know you better than you know yourself." Throughout history, England has been known by the nations to be untrustworthy, but is that strictly true?


_Not in this land alone_

**2nd September 1939**

"What passing bells for these who die as cattle?" Arthur uttered it through the quiet of the night, the bitterness quickly extinguished from his voice as the cold caught in the back of his throat. The man appeared to hesitate, his head twitching slightly, a possible indication that he had heard.

Arthur watched the group for a little longer as they huddled - safe to assume that this wasn't because of the cold – conversing in hushed voices. Finally breaking apart, four stoic businessmen separated at the end of the bridge and with a quick farewell, each headed their different ways.

Turning back around, perched upon a bridge, Arthur leaned further over the edge, looking past his dangling feet to admire the watery depths below. Taking one last drag of his cigarette, he deposited the end into the river with a lazy flick of his fingers.

Rising from his seat he climbed down from the edge, barely having time to brush himself off as if to repent for his improper actions before he realised that no one was waiting for him. He watched as one dark clad figure continued down the road ahead, disappearing into the fog like a ghost. Before he was completely obscured Arthur saw a subtle twitch of his hand, beckoning him to follow.

...

London harboured the silence well.

Arthur looked up at the man that had led him to this particular place. Standing on the steps of Nelson's column, he appeared to be studying the monument carefully and it was a while before Arthur found the words to speak.

"I got your message," he spoke slowly, keeping his eyes trained low, "and I came at your request. If you are merely trying to waste my time-"

"I heard you," Ludwig said, cutting him off. He turned around to face Arthur slowly, catching the Englishman's gaze in his own at last. "It is rude to interrupt private matters, especially when it's to voice your own deprecations." He accommodated a sudden chill. "But I'm surprised at the sentiment."

Arthur shrugged. "A soldier's sentiment, actually," he corrected. "In my experience, truth and sentiment never go together well. I wouldn't expect your misanthropic views of life to fathom any of it, but I'll give you the warning anyway." He curled his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat to escape a sudden shudder that passed. Though the sun shone happily through broken clouds, the air was cold, cutting through the two forlorn figures like knives.

"A warning," Ludwig's teeth gleamed though a sick smile as he glanced at the column beside him, "how sweet. Was there ever such fear in the face of your Admiral?" Arthur remained nonchalant but his jaw was set.

"There is no fear in a battle that you know you're going to win." He glanced from Nelson back to Ludwig, trying hard to look threatening. "The battles you're forcing upon us leaves little room for any winners, despite anything that crazy dictator of yours tells you. So, I'm only going to ask you once that you step down from the ground you're soon to destroy."

"But I don't want to go to war against you, Britain," Ludwig shook his head, ignoring the request, "as well you know. Unlike the Great War, this won't see the end of my reputation." He let out a bitter chuckle. "Tell me, Britain, had you been in the same position at the end of the war, with your name in the mud and all that you fought for taken away, would you have lain down and accepted it?"

He didn't need to think about it; Arthur sighed and hung his head.

"It could have been you _or_ me, Ludwig. That's what Versailles was all about," he replied, a little softer than intended.

The silent answer caught him off guard.

Looking up, he saw that Ludwig had stepped down from the monument, now standing so close to him their shoulders were almost touching. Ludwig looked him firmly in the eye.

"Then maybe you and I are more alike then we'd care to admit."

Despite the sincerity, Arthur decided to keep some distance between them.

"Maybe," he said, walking away to ascend the monument steps. "But no matter how many battles we fight, there will always be one thing that separates us."

"Which is?"

Arthur cast him a look over his shoulder.

"I always win."

"You're too proud for your own good," Ludwig said coldly. "It's sad really; you will lose so much, and yet you insist on being so damn _difficult_. You're more of a fool than I thought."

"Well, we both know that's a lie," Arthur scoffed, pretending to be absent-mindedly interested in his nails. "I suppose all those sweet meetings and friendly arrangements were nothing but a ploy to bring me down, then."

It had only been mere months ago that the German had been visiting him in his home, attempting to sweeten him, a ghost of a kiss at his shoe as a parting gift between them. At the refusal of an alliance between them, Ludwig seemed to have taken back all that he had said, and all that had once inspired him made him sick.

Ludwig looked surprised, but shook it off. "That's hardly fair," he said. "Your past leaders and general's were once something of an inspiration to Germany."

"Touching. Is that why you asked me to meet you here?" Arthur questioned, looking up at him.

"Indeed. Nelson brought you great victories. A fitting place to mourn an alliance, don't you think?"

"So, this isn't one of your social visits then?" Arthur asked sarcastically, earning a shrug from the German.

"It could be if that's what you want."

"I'll pass," Arthur stiffened. "But if this monument is still standing after the war, then I'll consider it."

"Do you always make improbable promises? It could explain why you're always so lonely." Ludwig looked up at Nelson as he climbed up the stairs towards the Briton.

"Said the pot to the kettle," Arthur retorted. "You've never attempted to be my friend before."

"Ah, of course, silly me," Ludwig hummed for a moment, settling himself down next to Arthur. "For a country that loves its monarchy so much, perhaps it would do to remember on which side of the sea the heritage stands, hmm?"

"If it's a battle of wit you want then you can fuck off back home," Arthur muttered, turning his head away.

"No battle. Not this time." Ludwig leaned in closer, and Arthur could feel his hot breath prickle against his neck. "America could never appreciate you, so why can't you entertain a nation that will?"

"Appreciate me? You're scared of me!" Arthur scoffed, turning back to look at Ludwig incredulously. "You only wanted to ally yourself with me so I don't get in your way again."

"And in return, let you keep your empire. All that you and your men ruthlessly fought for..." There was a pause. Ludwig decided to let it sink in, leaning back to look up at the murky sky. He was only teasing Arthur; they both knew the abortion had terminated any chance of an alliance a long time ago. Neither said anything for a long while, in which time Arthur was digging his fingers into the palm of his hands, well aware that Ludwig was mocking him, even by his mere presence on proud ground.

Out of nowhere, Ludwig began muttering.

"What?" Arthur dared ask, cutting him off.

"I was just thinking of all the men that once stood proud for your country." Ludwig cast him a sideways glance. "That's what you British men do to pass time, isn't it? The Duke of Wellington... A man lucky enough to share such a great name with yourself."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Your flattery is so sweet I could indulge myself fat off it," he said dismissively.

"If anything were to fatten that slender body of yours it would be your massive empire."

"A feast you've had your eye on for a long time, no doubt."

"It can't be denied." Ludwig sat up straight again, and turned to Arthur. Their eyes met. "I admire that spirit of yours, that stiff upper lip in the face of the enemy. Something I fear will break in time if you aren't careful."

"Better not stay in my way then," Arthur answered, careful not to break his gaze.

"Me in _your_ way? Oh no, don't play that with me." The chuckle was so dark and low, it didn't even sound like Ludwig. It didn't even _look_ like him anymore. A broken shell uniformed to perfection under the influence of another. This is what worried Arthur most. He and Ludwig had been in brutal battles before, but being attacked by a complete stranger was a frightening thought. "For a long time now you have stood in my line of fire, and up until now I've been hesitant to pull the trigger. Now, you have a choice, and I have given you enough time. Alas, this is the last time I will visit you like this, Arthur. The next time we meet, I fear, I may not be so nice."

Arthur hesitated, plucking up the courage to speak, parting his cold lips carefully.

"To the battlefield, then."

The air was silent again for a moment before Ludwig leaned down, reaching out to grab his ankles. With a sharp tug, he pulled Arthur right off the step.

Ludwig stood up straight and looked coldly down at the Englishman below him.

"You will regret this, you know," he snarled. "I will destroy you." With formal grace tempered with anger, he strode away. Arthur lay on the floor, too tired to get up.

For a moment he just lay there, then, he started to laugh.

* * *

_But be God's mercies known_

**9****th**** September 1940**

"...What General Weygand has called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is to begin."

Churchill had been right; the air battle of Great Britain was upon them. Only two nights had passed and Arthur could feel his body weaken. Though the battle was above him, roaring in the night skies, it was the words of this foreboding that went around and around, turning up in his head again like tides of the sea.

Socks pulled up, tie slipping, shirt untucked underneath a suit jacket; Arthur made his way to work. Not so much work as a big convenience in his life, the meeting he was to have that morning between a few nations had sprung upon him like a little haven amongst the rubble of his former glory.

In the meeting, he tried to return fire against the rest of his allies when they looked at him, all thinking the same thing.

Treacherous they had called him. His people bore the letters of untrustworthy on their backs. Deceitful, and his government only cared for one thing, for their empire to prosper, even if it meant having to dig the key out from within the rotting corpses of their own dead men with their tongues.

Arthur wasn't surprised when the tip of Nazi propaganda was suddenly pointed at him, hell, he would even call himself a fool if he hadn't seen it coming sooner or later.

Hitler was becoming frustrated that the gain for air superiority was too slow. It seemed only natural for him to let out his anger of the country in his way.

"Perfidious Albion" they'd called him. But this wasn't new...he'd heard that name before...but where?

* * *

_From shore to shore!_

**October 16, 1793**

Arthur had thought it strange at first that the Palace of Versailles should be empty. Wandering lonely through its halls of pristine white and gold, it was soon supposed that Francis had sent them all away.

The night had been chosen carefully; Francis had requested his company in France a few months ago, but as there was no specified reason why, Arthur felt inclined to keep putting it off. Upon hearing of the execution of Marie Antoinette, however, did he realise that things were starting to get serious and that it was finally time to take action as many of the nations had done before.

Perfectly alone, Arthur found Francis in one of the many expensive rooms. It was quick to boast a wealthy impression as he peered inside, showing off marble pillars and grand paintings. It didn't take long for Arthur to notice that all the furniture had been pushed to the sides in what appeared to be a formation of careless fury.

His lone highness sat silently upon one lavish chair in the middle of the room. Arthur couldn't see Francis's face at first as it was tilted away from him, hanging lazily between his shoulders, shadows cast across him.

The large double doors had opened with a creak that echoed throughout the room, and the light from the lit halls had tumbled through with such a thirst, that his presence must have been obvious. Still, Francis didn't move.

Arthur hesitantly entered the room, never straying from the entrance. His hands clasped together in an expectant manner, he waited.

And waited.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. At last, Francis sighed through his nose and looked up at Arthur. Arthur was shocked at his appearance. He took a moment to take in the rough appearance of his tight skin, dark circles under his eyes and neglected stubble. In the long years he had known Francis, he'd never seen him look so dishevelled, and for a moment, the congeniality between them was lost.

Silence followed, and both allowed for the other to speak first, but just as Arthur was about to break it, Francis beat him to it.

"You've taken your time," he murmured through the shadows. "So much in fact, that your invitation here has expired." The gaze was inadvertently sinister; Francis seemed to be making enough effort to keep his head bowed.

Arthur observed him warily.

"I didn't know a holiday to your rotten country _could _expire," he replied stiffly, crossing his arms, making him look quite childish.

"A holiday?" Francis looked surprised for a moment, his eyes widening just enough to make his lips twitch a smile. It passed quickly. "Such a compliment. Today_ is_ full of surprises."

"What? You thought I was here to sing in French for the head of your dead royals?" Arthur asked incredulously.

"I've done it for all yours," Francis replied, turning his head away to rest it in his palm. His eyes drifted closed.

"It looks like you're having quite a party here." Arthur pretended to look around for guests in the room as he spoke. "What's the matter, Francis, not got the stomach for a little late celebration? Or has your putrid wine finally put you off?" At this, Francis was stoic.

"I thought such a palace for slave-drivers and pompous monarchs would make you feel at home. You had my faith, little England, that you'd call here upon my darkest hours to gloat," he said. Not turning to look at him, he indicated to a chair near his own, inviting him to sit. As soon as the action was complete, his arm fell limply back down to his side harshly; the effort looked like it had exhausted him.

Arthur remained where he was. "Surely I'm not that obvious," he replied, eyes carefully darting around the room.

"Non, but I have known you for many years. You are not nearly merciful enough to let people into that cold, dead heart of yours."

"Neither are you, it seems," Arthur replied quietly, eyes flickering up to a portrait of Marie Antoinette beside him.

Francis let out a harsh sigh, bringing Arthur's attention back to him quickly. He still hadn't moved, but his eyes had opened again, finding him quickly.

"I assume you've spoken to the others," he spoke emotionlessly, sitting up straight and quickly picking something off his shirt.

"I have. They sure have a lot to say about the matter."Arthur practically drawled it, savouring every word. He began to walk around the edge of the room as he spoke, running his fingers lightly over the many fallen ornaments along the tables. "This revolution of yours certainly has sparked up some attention, not all of it in your favour."

Arthur could hear Francis muttering to himself from behind him, but something else was muttering inside his head.

"_Keep playing. Don't tell him yet. Keep playing."_

Arthur turned around to see the seat vacant. Near the grand arched windows on the other side of the room, Francis had begun rummaging through a desk.

"You've not yet asked me how I am, Môn Cherie," Francis said, halting his rummaging to look across at him.

"That's because I don't bloody care, Frog," Arthur replied sourly.

"Then why are you here?"

"_Don't you dare."_

It caught Arthur off guard. He hadn't had time to think of an answer. He looked around the room quickly. "You know me, old chap. Always ready to annoy you when the situation calls." Francis apparently wasn't listening. He had resumed his rummaging and was growing increasingly frustrated. "What are you looking for?" Arthur asked weakly.

Francis stopped.

"I'm...not sure," he said, his brow furrowing in thought. "Myself I think. Yes...that sounds right."

Arthur snorted. "Sounds like a plan. Good luck with that," he replied, approaching Francis as he continued to sort through every draw and door of the furniture that had been pushed together. Standing by his side, it took a moment for Arthur to notice a dark mark on Francis's skin.

"Francis..."

"Where is it...? She must have taken it..."

"Francis." The Frenchman turned to Arthur, who was leaned coolly against one of the desks. Francis instinctively raised a hand to his neck, tracing a dark mark with his fingers. It ran all around his neck, the dark tone seeping against his fair skin.

"Yes, well done, Britain!" Francis snapped at him. "I'm well aware I'm going mad."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, you're not mad, you're just..." He trailed off. He looked at the twin marks of the same type binding Francis's wrists as his sleeves slipped. Francis noticed and quickly pulled them back down.

Arthur looked away. "She struggled, then?" It seemed like a sadistic question; Francis just shrugged.

"Not as much," he answered sadly. Arthur turned back to him. His smile was almost sympathetic.

"She meant that much?"

Once again, Francis avoided the topic. He moved swiftly to the middle of the room again, sending the draw he'd be holding crashing to the ground, filling the room with harsh clatters.

"What a boring night this has turned out to be," he said, looking around the room as if he had never seen it before. "Every cell in this body is burning with passion while my heart thumps adrenalin and desire, and yet this world feels so dull." He turned on his feet, a finger pointed straight at Arthur. "Entertain me."

"Oh, piss off," Arthur scowled, walking back over to him like a faithful dog.

"It's too quiet in here, don't you think?" Francis turned to him. His head snapped back up in alert suddenly, his face surprised. "That tune..." he mused, turning away. "Played the first night I danced with my darling Joan...or was it Madam Marie? Juliette..." He shook his head. "No, she's one of yours."

"Francis?"

"No matter, we can make music of our own."

"Get a hold of yourself Francis! Your mind's in different places at once," Arthur protested, backing away from a suddenly advancing Frenchman.

"Non, I am merely happy," Francis stopped, looking hurt. "Finally, my people will be happy; I can feel them now as they make merry with wine and love." He said, his voice getting louder.

"Quieten down, you'll waken the house."

"I don't care!" Francis laughed loudly, looking up at the painted ceiling. "We must put our lies to sleep. I'll send them running, we'll earn back every drop of blood they took!"

Arthur was bewildered. Francis was beginning to tremble.

"Francis, you're completely deluded from all the emotions of your people," he tried, but before the words could have reached Francis, the Frenchman grabbed his head suddenly. He fell to his knees as he groaned in pain.

"Stay away!" Francis managed to cry, parting gritted teeth, holding out a hand to Arthur, a feeble attempt at preventing him from approaching. In his pain, he didn't notice that Arthur had actually taken a couple of steps backwards. "Britain, it hurts!" He moaned, his body trembling. "Why are they out to hurt us? Am I mad?"

"Stop being so dramatic," Arthur scoffed. "You're not mad; your people are revolting and you've no doubt had too much alcohol. Just embrace the words, they'll be gone soon. It's happened to the best of us."

"The best of us, Britain? That means you?" Francis was breathing heavily, his fingernails digging through his blonde hair to reach his scalp. "I think not. What'll happen to this country now?"

"Not to worry, you're strong." Arthur turned his back on the helpless form. "You'll come out of this alive, and unchanged. You'll still be the same perverted, tasteless Francis we all know."

"You're cruel, Britain," Francis chuckled lightly, a slight sniffle at the end, the pain fading from his voice.

"I'm not a doctor, France, not lest _yours_, so you shouldn't expect a diagnosis," Arthur snapped, idly picking up the mess on the floor.

"But what doctor can tell me the situation and the stress of my body like you can? What doctor can possibly understand what we are?" Came Francis's reply.

"_Who_ we are, France, not what we are," Arthur replied, pausing. "I'm not even sure myself of that - of you."

Francis just sighed.

"I have known you for many years," he spoke quietly. "I'm that shadow who stretches across your land, as you are mine. I've brought you war, and have seen you at your worst. You could say, I know you better than you know yourself."

Arthur didn't reply. He stood up straight, and turned to face Francis, who remained expressionless.

"That hesitation almost sound like you're disagreeing with me, Britain," he said slowly. They started at each other for a moment. "What treachery is this? Your silence wounds me, that you can't even excuse your own foul actions. I saw you, embracing the change, this revolution!"

Arthur shook his head.

"Those were the words of my people, not I," he said. "Since when has either been one and the same?"

Francis didn't reply straight away, and climbed steadily to his feet. Once balanced, he shot Arthur a glare across the room.

"And you're stomping that out then? Eliminating the impurities before we have your ugly monarchs lined up to be shot one by one?"

Arthur let out a small cough.

"It's not right, Francis, I'm sorry."

"Not right for whom?" Francis advanced. "Don't mistake me, you _were_ behind this revolution! You're the most revolting person I know!" Once again Arthur didn't reply, instead getting his pleasures from the silence. Francis wanted to spit at his feet. "It's always been about you, you perfidious bastard. Get out, now!" Francis was still shaking, though Arthur wasn't sure whether it was in pain or rage. He calmly placed the draw on the desk. "I'll ensure that the next time you cross over these waters is when I have your head grasped in my bloodied hand, you villainous snake!"

Francis's voice was getting closer and closer and, sensing danger, Arthur turned to push past Francis, marching towards the door.

_"Attaquons dans ses eaux perfide Albion!" _

_Let us attack Albion in her waters._

* * *

_Lord make the nations see_

**9****th**** September 1940**

The night was still young for the Luftwaffe.

Arthur tumbled out of his house, holding onto the deck railing for support as he let out pained coughs. His body was trembling under the invasion of his heart that was burning underneath his clutch.

With wet eyes, he looked up to the cloud skies littered with airplanes and alight with fire. There was something familiar about this scene of broken, frightened people - something in the noise filled air as the sirens beat through his ears that he could call...nostalgic?

* * *

_That men should brothers be_

**9****th**** July 1807**

"...Time is running out for Britain. Napoleon's empire continues to grow, feeding off all in its path, and we will surely be next. Therefore, we must now turn our attentions to Denmark."

The Palace of Westminster, the house for the Lords and the Commons – and typically "bloated, overpaid men" Arthur often deprecated – were always two shillings separated from the reality of the people outside. They gathered in the chambers, seated row upon row on opposite sides of the room, hundreds of anticipating eyes bearing down on the Speaker where he sat in the centre.

After the meeting and topic had been addressed, a tall, pale man with a slightly upturned nose stood from his seat at the front, looking down at his papers in hand as he shuffled them.

"As we have all understood," he spoke, his voice rather high pitched, "the treaty of Tilset has been a great hindrance in our battle against France by not only turning our once-allies Prussia and Russia against us, but it has also given Napoleon a clear grasp at the Baltic seas." He paused to accommodate the general murmur. "This means the Danish fleet is completely open to him and I have no doubt that to sit by and do nothing would see Russia and France seize that navy for themselves and force Denmark into this war against us..."

As he continued to talk, their country stood in the background, tuning the voices out and being ignored in return.

In a rebelliously unprofessional manner, Arthur slumped up against the wall, crossing his arms loosely across his chest as his eyes ran up the ornate panels that stretched above them to demonstrate his obvious boredom.

On the segmented ceiling, large paintings and emblems were boasted where huge, beautiful chandeliers hung, and grand arched windows sat high on the wall, letting in very little light that tried to glisten off the golden designs encasing them.

Such buildings were designed only to make rich, middle-aged men feel important and Arthur smirked at the thought. Looking down and keeping his head low, he dabbed at his bottom lip with his sleeve, trying to clean up the blood that he had caused in his impatience.

Having been at war with France for a few years now, Napoleon had definitely been keeping Britain on its toes. After the French Revolution, France was growing more and more powerful and was fast building itself an empire that much threatened Arthur's own.

At the beginning on the Fourth Coalition, Russia, Prussia and Sweden had all stood alongside Britain against France. But now Britain was pretty much fighting back to back with Sweden after Ivan had become "best friends" with the incompetent wine-lover and Gilbert had pretty much fallen to his mercy.

Though Arthur had not personally seen Francis in a very long time, he was still happy to be that thorn in his side, smirking with every step of the fight because France knew that he was still a threat, having a control over the seas he could never match.

Unfortunately for Arthur, this meant that tactful Napoleon didn't even bother trying to humour Britain by fighting over seas, but instead try his hand at economical warfare. The continental blockade banned all trade with Britain to the countries now under his thumb and with trade being vital to an island nation, his economy was slowly collapsing.

With Arthur's body getting increasingly thinner, he was now more isolated than ever. There was something within the Briton that wouldn't allow the fear and vulnerability to surface, often causing him to get violent and to lash out at his advisors and peers, stumbling through the streets at three in the morning completely drunk.

"...Therefore we must form an alliance with Denmark, and it has been a long time coming."

At these words, Arthur was quick to snap himself out of his reverie and lift his head to the assembly. His mind had already been made up but this was going to be the final decision.

"We need that navy if we're to stand any chance in this war, and we have to get in there first!" the tall man continued to explain. "We're going to need to send ships out there to bring their ships back here."

Arthur was getting impatient. He already knew Denmark would never agree. Matthias himself seemed uninterested in the whole affair of the Napoleon wars and would rather remain neutral. Arthur had been all prepared to leave for Denmark to take the navy by force if he had to, but had been held back until the idea had been finalised with Parliament.

Luckily, it seemed he wasn't the only person in the room who was anticipating the answer.

"What makes you so sure they'll agree?" another man piped up. "What could we possibly offer them in return?"

"Protection," replied the other. "We'll return their ships to them after the war and if they agree to let us use them we agree to defend them against the French."

Tension filled the room in an instant, an interesting mix of calmness and the overwhelming urge to panic. Such tension from his finest, high status men was starting to make Arthur shake in his weak, skinny body.

Eventually, people started to speak up over each other, and it seemed their opinions were divided.

"Gentlemen, please!" called the Speaker from his podium, his large chin wobbling slightly from the strength of his voice. The men quietened themselves down quickly. "We have no other choice, and action must be taken now!" He turned to the man from before. "Is this your final proposal?"

"Yes, my Lord," he answered, a large group of men around him also nodding. "Unless...anybody else has any other ideas?" With a slight sneer, he looked at the men who had objected challengingly, but they were now looking away.

"That's settled then," the Speaker declared and another murmur broke out between the gents.

"Arthur!" the nation quickly looked up at the man calling him, which turned out to be the Prime Minister, who had risen from his feet. "You set out in the morning."

**30****th**** July 1807**

Sometimes, it seemed to Arthur that wherever he went, the Duke of Wellington was not far behind, though not intentionally, but mainly out of duty and political appointments. Arthur Wellesley, unaware that he was being scrutinised by the personification of England, continued his business around the deck of the ship.

With over 25,000 troops, Arthur was sailing towards the Baltic seas in the hopes of bringing Matthias round. The Duke of Wellington had just returned to Ireland from India when he had heard about the expedition and insisted that he go too, being appointed commander. Arthur sat leisurely on one of the crates and watched as the Duke headed back inside, away from the rough winds.

Breathing the air in deeply, he turned his head to the sky, observing the glorious blue above him and began to relax for the first time in a long while.

Arthur couldn't foretell the events that lay ahead, but if he had known then what was going to happen, would he have been so bloodthirsty?

* * *

Matthias rubbed his eyes tiredly, holding back a yawn.

From the battery, beside officers and a captain, he could see the British fleet approaching like ghosts in the night, wading their way towards the sleepy town through the murky sea. It was a cold night, and Matthias rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm them before burying them in-between folded arms.

He could hear the talk of the men beside him but they were just distant voices in his sleep deprived state. He was quick, however, to realise they weren't firing.

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped, and they looked at him like they only just realised he was there. The General quickly regained composure.

"My apologises, sir, but they've made a salute at us, it is only right that we return it," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Return it?" Matthias gritted his teeth and waved angrily at the approaching fleet. "They're here to make us surrender to their demands, we should attack them were they float!" The General paused, and the soldiers situated behind him looked at each other.

"I remind you that we aren't yet at war. We shall return the salute," the General answered finally, and turned back towards the sea, ordering fifteen guns. Before Matthias could do anything the returning salute had been made.

Clenching his fists tightly, he swore under his breath.

**2****nd**** September 1807**

Copenhagen was surrounded, its buildings undefended. Arthur had laughed, standing ahead of a force of 25,000 men and 3,000 horses, ready for a Danish army that wasn't there.

Fire danced along the horizon, the flames seducing him from a distance as they lit up the night sky in tempting vigour. Congreve rockets were lined up ahead, men standing all around him as Arthur watched as the city was shelled into chaos.

He could hear the cries as people fled their homes. He could feel the blaze through every hair on his skin. France would not defeat him. He would get this army off Matthias, even if he had to break the Dane's soul to do so. Denmark, after all, had saluted it.

They were instructed to target civilians and they did so, without much remorse. It would be easier to break their defence that way. Hands stuffed into his pockets to keep out the cold chills, he took a little morbid fascination in kicking up a patch of dirt from the ground, as if he was uprooting Copenhagen from under his feet.

Negotiators were often sent out to reason with his troops but weren't successful. Arthur just sat and jeered at them as they came out and spat at their retreating forms, insisting they weren't leaving without their navy.

**21****st**** October 1807**

Preparing to board his ship back to England, Arthur heard a small voice calling his name. Turning around he saw Matthias staring after him.

He was completely broken. His bandages looked like they needed changing and his face was sporting deep cuts and a blank look. As the two stared at each for a moment, Arthur noticed that the Dane was trying to scowl at him, but after a moment, looked too painful even to do that.

Arthur smiled back at him, but it wasn't kind, - finally able to thank Matthias for his navy, though the time and effort it took to get it made the prize tedious. Turning his back on Matthias, he tuned out the loud Danish insults being hurled at him.

Denmark allied with France, but Britain had finally got his way, but at the cost of 5,000 soldiers and civilians.

* * *

_And form one family_

**9th September 1940**

Arthur tried to shut out the screams and shouts with his hands clamped over his ears, but the thought was still there. His heart was tearing into pieces and his people were dying. Unable to move from the numbing pain, he lay as a clear target in the middle of the road. Is this what Matthias had felt when he had attacked Copenhagen's citizens to break the morale of his defence?

Curling up and digging his nails into the palms of his hands he began to cry.

* * *

_The wide world ov'er_

**6****th**** July 1940**

It was a sunny day on the coast of England, the meeting between him and a few other nations ending a couple of hours ago so Arthur was able to go out and enjoy it.

It was still the early stages of the war but Arthur was tired, constantly on edge, tapping his fingers during the silences and nibbling at the flesh around his fingers in the meetings.

He especially felt uneasy around Francis.

Francis had noted Arthur's recent ragged appearance and had taken upon himself to point it out at inappropriate times. But that was easy to deal with. To push the offending face away and string together an array of "British" terribly forced swear words to keep suspecting eyes off him had become an occupation.

But this time it was worse because Arthur didn't deserve the mercy he was receiving.

On the 3rd of July, he had given the go-ahead to attack a French fleet, resulting in the deaths of over a thousand men. He had received pointed glares from other nations over the past few days but nothing was said. The tension between them all was so great that all it needed was for Francis to be wheeled in, missing vital limbs and covered in bandages to complete the scene.

Thankfully, this wasn't the case.

To Arthur's disbelief, Francis never mentioned it. He was a man, an ally, a _friend._

Francis teased Arthur like he normally would during the meeting, and at one point was kind enough to invite him out to "have some fun" after it was finished.

Barbed wire had been enforced along the beaches, but Francis insisted taking a long route over the docks would get them through. Barbed wire wasn't much of a defence for nations anyway. With a nicely ripped and dirty uniform, Arthur wandered down the beach with Francis, who was holding his shoes in his hands, contently kicking up the sand by his feet.

"The sand here isn't as rich as the ones on my beaches," Francis mused looking down at his feet as they walked. "It's colder and wetter even when the sun is shining and the sea is all the way down there."

Arthur hummed in response, hands in his pockets. He was discreetly trying to walk a little distance away from Francis.

To get too close now would to shake the time bomb. His was suspicious when Francis had invited him for a walk, and that all but rose when realisation hit; they were on a deserted, cold beach, away from any civilization.

"But it's the sea that glorifies your beaches, Britain," Francis spoke as they stopped before the tide, small waves trying to catch them. "Fitting really, when you think about all that has been achieved over water." Francis turned to him and smiled, and it did seem genuine.

The two continued to make idle chatter with each other as the afternoon wore on and when Arthur had gradually felt more comfortable with this presence, slipped off his shoes and socks and left them on the shore as he and Francis set their feet in the water, not bothering to roll up the bottom of their trouser legs.

"We have seen many wars together, Britain," Francis said, breaking a silence that had settled between the two. "We have supported each other when it was needed, but most of the time we were against each other. Two sides of the same coin, wouldn't you say?"

Arthur shook his head in response.

"No. The Reichmark will never bear the pride of my nation underneath it," he said.

"But it will hold mine?" Francis raised an eyebrow incredulously, the warm, childish smile long since gone.

"That's not what I said," Arthur replied but Francis ignored him.

"Is that what Mers-el-Kébir was all about?" Francis continued, turning to face Arthur, his expression now grave. "Threatened by the armistice? Scared?" He paused before sneering. "Jealous?"

"Jealous of you becoming Ludwig's new lap dog?" Arthur scoffed, looking away. "Not likely."

Suddenly he felt a fist collide with the side of his face, sending him stumbling backwards in pain. He barely had time to grab his now throbbing jaw when he felt a hand close around his throat, forcing him backwards into the water before he had a chance to regain balance.

He saw Francis snarling at him from above, squeezing his throat tightly before dunking his head in the water and keeping it there.

In his shock, Arthur had swallowed some sea water and could his feel his throat and chest convulse for air that wasn't there. Running out of air, he tried to claw at the offended hand and kicked his legs out in a desperate attempt to catch the Frenchman.

Eventually, he was lifted to the surface.

Gasping and breaking into painful coughs, Arthur resumed trying to release the hand from around his throat.

"Did you think you were being clever, dear Arthur?!" Francis spat him, and when Arthur opened his eyes he saw he was shaking with rage. "I have lost over a thousand of my soldiers to your little games! Would you still have done it, knowing that two of your own aircraft would also perish at the expense?!" Not waiting for an answer, Francis dunked Arthur's head back under the water. "So long as King Arthur and his Mighty Empire are safe you'd drive a knife through your own soldier's hearts," he continued to shout as he felt Arthur struggle beneath him. "You make me sick, filthy scum!"

Francis finally let go of Arthur and rose to his feet, seething. As Arthur sat up, Francis gave him a swift kick to the side. "I gave you my word and you spat on it," he snarled before walking back up the beach.

Arthur was too in shock to retaliate. He continued to cough and splutter and shake the water from his soaking hair as it fell over his eyes. Even when he had caught his breath, he didn't stop breathing heavily, still sat in the water, eyes shut tight, not wanting to confirm that Francis had left him alone.

"Look at that, Germany! Francis is mad at Britain!" Arthur opened his eyes wide at the voice, quickly rising to his feet to stare at the two men who were stood on the beach in front of him. "He deserved that for doing such an evil thing."

"H-how did you-? Why are you-?" Arthur started hopelessly at the smug looking Ludwig standing ahead of him, Feliciano at his side, looking as bright as usual.

"Has it come to this, almighty Britain?" Ludwig shook his head in mock disapproval. "Turning against your allies to save your own skin?"

"I had no choice!" Arthur shouted, his voice hoarse. "I won't let you break me!" Ludwig merely chuckled.

"Perfida Albione, you'll do anything to get your fifth meal of the day!" Italy shouted at him. "All you have ever fought for has been for yourself!"

"That's...that's not true!" Arthur shut his eyes and covered his ears in an attempt to keep out the building voices. Was he going mad?

They amplified in his head and Arthur found himself growing dizzy. But soon, they washed away again, as quickly as they had settled. They drifted away with the lapping shore by his feet, carrying his madness away. Eyes reluctantly open again, he saw that Ludwig and Feliciano weren't there. Removing his hands from his ears he glanced around carefully, confirming that once again, he was alone.

* * *

**27th July 2012**

Thousands of lights twinkled for him in the distance as the hundreds of nations watched the display with awe. This would be the start of the London Summer Olympics, and Arthur was determined to make it the best Britain had to offer.

He felt he owed it to the people. After year after depressing year, it was nice to see so many people enjoying themselves and celebrating their country.

He looked around him from his seat; all the countries were watching as the industrial revolution got underway. Feliciano looked like he was going to burst with excitement, Alfred was exclaiming now and again with food still in his mouth; he didn't know what to make of a smirking Francis.

Ludwig caught Arthur's eye in an awkward moment and for no other words, smiled at him – an act rare in itself - before looking back at the ceremony.

Arthur also looked back but couldn't stop his mind from wandering as his people re-enacted an age from his own life. The nickname that had haunted him throughout history was long forgotten, but the things he had done weren't.

The name had branded him and now everyone knows it. They'd all had dark pasts, all had thing's they regret, but Arthur's have cost him trust, and probably a lot more.

But maybe, in time, it's something he can earn back.

* * *

**You got all the way to the end, well done you :D  
****I'm so glad this is finished, as it's been months more than I wanted in the making.**

**Okay, in case any of you are confused, this is basically a look back into certain parts in England's history that could/have been seen as treacherous acts, earning him the name Perfidious Albion - hence no strict timeline here.**

**The term is a real one that has been used throughout history. Nobody knows where it originally came from, but it came back to public attention thanks to Nazi propaganda.**

**Before the war, Germany had originally wanted to ally itself with Britain, and before 1938, had praised them a lot. They posted biography's of their great leaders in the newspapers, were inspired by their empire and saw them as Aryan imperialists. But after Britain declined allying itself with Germany, the tables turned and they were soon spouting all sorts of propaganda against them, calling them the "Jew amongst Europe." This is why Ludwig had previously been visiting Arthur in "sweet meetings and friendly arrangements" and you can interperate that in any way you want.**

**The very first line, "what passing bells for these who die as cattle?" is the first line of Wilfred Owen's Anthem for Doomed Youth, written in 1917, which basically means all the men that die in war get no passing bells for their deaths - like cattle.**

**The quote,"...What General Weygand has called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is to begin," is by Winston Churchill in his This Was Their Finest Hour speech, just a month after he became Prime Minister.**

**When Arthur went to see Francis in the Palace of Versailles, it was the time of the French Revolution: after King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were executed, Britain was seen as a traitor to the French revolutionists ****as they had once supported the move but were soon opposed as the revolution went on and,****_"Attaquons dans ses eaux perfide Albion!" _is from a french poem at that time.**

**The sighting of the British fleet by Matthias was a reference to Bernard Cornwell's story of the second battle of Copenhagen, in a chilling scene were the events were described: "The ships ghosted southwards. They carried an army that had come to crush Denmark. And Denmark saluted it."**

**The attack on Mers-el-Kébir was a surprise bombardment of a French fleet by the British after France had signed an armistice with Germany. Despite being assured otherwise, Britain was worried that the fleet would become apart of the German navy, and on the 3rd July 1940, a British naval task force attacked the anchored fleet, resulting in the loss of over a thousand sailors. This had a severe effect on British and French relations, much to Germany's delight, and the world was shown just how much Britain was prepared to do in order to win the war.**

**The italicised quotes before the dates in each section of the story are lines in a usually forgotten verse of God Save the Queen (or King, depending on what year you live in), which is a shame, because it's one of the best verses, I think.**

**If this didn't help explain anything then feel free to ask questions.**

**Thank you very much for reading.**


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